Dad's Letter
by DeansGirl1983
Summary: Set in Season 2, This is right after Dean find's out John sold his soul for him. What If John was able to leave a letter in his journal for his boys? What if Sam found that letter? Would it help their grief? I lost my Dad this year. My heart is still shattered. I draw on strength while writing this short story.
1. Chapter 1

The grief lingered. The anger simmered. The emptiness was consuming. Every emotion cut like a knife inside of his gut and shredded his soul. Emotions were hot, heavy blankets that wrapped so tight they suffocated you. So he drank. He worked on his car. He numbed the pain. He ignored Sam's persistent hovering. He fought back the rage. He fought back the tears. He climbed deeper into the hole he had dug for himself. Nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Dad was dead.

It had happened a few months ago. In a hospital. He had been fine one minute. Gone the next.

Like a flash of fire. A light switch. Fine. Gone. Fine. Gone. Breathing. Not breathing. Heart beating. Heart stopping. Gone. Dead. Dad.

No.

The gut-wrenching pain was like acid being poured into already open wounds and Dean's breath hissed through his clenched teeth as he sat on the edge of the bed, his arms wrapped around his middle.

"Son of a bitch," He whispered, his words clipped and broken. The empty bottle of whiskey that sat on the nightstand had helped for a short time. Dean had slept through drunken nightmares and had awakened before dawn, gasping for breath, exhausted and sick. He sat hunched over the bed, willing himself not to throw up. Life was not fair. But then again it never had been. Gritting his teeth, Dean got to his feet and braced his hand on the edge of the nightstand. His vision swam. He took a step forward. His stomach lurched. He groaned. There was no use ignoring the inevitable. Half stumbling towards the bathroom, Dean didn't even bother to close the door as he hit his knees in front of the toilet and retched until he saw stars.

He didn't know how long he hung over the porcelain bowl trying to stop shaking and heaving. He swallowed several times trying to settle his stomach. He wanted to be off of the floor before Sam or Bobby found him lying on the tile, weak and vulnerable. He wanted to get a grip on his emotions and his stomach and be outside working on baby before he was seen like this. But that wasn't going to happen any time soon. He retched again as his stomach heaved and the whiskey burned worse coming up as it did going down.

"Dean?"

Damn.

"Dean, you all right?"

Sam was standing in the doorway of the bathroom, his worried eyes staring straight into Dean's shredded soul. Dean leaned back and wiped his mouth. He glanced up at his brother. The room didn't tilt and Dean thought that was a good sign.

"I'm fine," Dean replied. His voice sounded like dried leaves being stomped on. Sam's eyes narrowed.

"You don't look fine," Sam said evenly.

"Something just didn't agree with me," Dean snapped. He slowly started getting to his feet.

"You mean this entire bottle of whiskey?" Sam waved the empty bottle of whiskey in front of Dean's ashen face.

Dean stood upright, wobbled for just a second and then pushed the bottle and Sam out of his way, albeit weakly, so he could leave the bathroom. Sam followed him down the hall, down the stairs and into the kitchen. He was silent as he watched Dean go for the half empty pot of coffee on the kitchen counter. A crinkling of paper had both boys turning their heads to see Bobby sitting at the kitchen table with a newspaper and cup of coffee. He raised an eyebrow in question.

"I miss something this morning?" Bobby asked gruffly.

"You didn't miss anything," Dean mumbled.

"Breakfast is there on the stove," Bobby said. Dean's face paled.

"I don't think Dean will be eating breakfast this morning," Sam replied and there was a slight edge to his tone. Dean slammed down his coffee cup on the counter and glared at his brother.

Bobby sighed and put the paper down.

"You two idjits want to tell me what's going on here?"

"Ask Sam," Dean muttered, "I'm going to work on the car."

"It's not even daylight Dean," Sam said.

"A little sunrise never hurt anyone Sam," Dean shot back. He dumped his coffee down the sink and stalked outside, slamming the door behind him. Sam watched him go, torn, his eyes deep with concern, his mouth twisted with pain and anger.

"Sit down Sam," Bobby said.

Sam made himself a cup of coffee and then lowered himself into a chair opposite the man they would come to call a second father. His shoulders slumped as he took a sip of the hot black liquid.

"Want to tell me what that was all about?"

Sam was silent for a moment before he swallowed and shook his head.

"He won't talk to me. When we go hunting he's reckless. That's why I dragged him back here and now he's back to working on that car all day like before. If he does talk to me he's biting my head off. I'm worried Bobby. He was puking this morning. Hungover. An entire bottle of whiskey empty. I caught him and now he's pissed."

"He's grieving."

"It's been months Bobby. Months. I know how he felt about Dad. And if he wants to grieve and talk then fine. That's healthy. But the drinking, the silence, the walking around with an empty look…" Sam's voice trailed off and he took a deep shuddering breath.

"Dean bottles everything up inside. You know that," Bobby said quietly, "Eventually he will let it out. He has too."

"But at what cost Bobby?"

"That's his decision."

Sam shook his head.

"No. I can't accept that. I won't have my brother killing himself with grief. I won't allow it."

"Sam-"

"I'm going to take a shower." Sam stood abruptly and pushed back his chair. He left the room without a word. Bobby gazed around the empty kitchen and sighed heavily. Two grieving brothers who needed each other now more than ever; they were avoiding each other and the heavy blanket of grief they each dragged behind them. And now Dean was hiding outside and Sam was hiding upstairs. And nobody was going to eat the damn breakfast he had made early this morning.

"Balls," Bobby grumbled.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam emerged from the hot shower, the steam still heavy and thick in the bathroom and grabbed for the towel that was hanging from the rack on the wall. He slung it around his body and tied it off so that it settled on his hips. He ran his hands through his wet hair until it set at the nape of his neck. The moisture from the shower made his skin glisten and he reached for a new towel to dry off his still dripping chest.

The face that stared back at him from the fogged up mirror showed features that were pale and slightly gaunt. His eyes were sunken with worry, grief and exhaustion. He was angry. He was confused. He was heart sick. He missed his Dad.

John Winchester had never seen eye to eye with his younger son and Sam had tested his boundaries on more than one occasion. The last one had been him leaving for college and never looking back. Until that night Dean came to find him.

" _Dad's on a hunting trip and he hasn't been home in a few days."_

Sam had wanted a life. He didn't want to hunt forever. His life was not going to be made up of monsters and ghosts and constant road trips that had you sleeping in run down motels. He was going to earn his law degree, settle down with Jess and live a life that was not dictated by his Father or Dean or even by the supernatural.

But everything changed. Dean had needed him. He had been there. And then Jess had been killed by the same demon that had killed their Mom twenty-two years before and Sam had been inconsolable. He wanted vengeance. Rage and grief had driven him all these months. He wanted to completely destroy the thing that had shattered their lives.

And their Dad had found a way. A colt revolver. There would be no exorcism to send the murderous demon back to hell itself; the colt would destroy it. Forever. But now the colt was missing and Dad was dead. Dean had shut him out and he felt like he was losing the only family he had left.

Sam felt hot tears fill his eyes, spill over and trickle down his cheeks. He braced both hands on the bathroom counter and lowered his head as sobs shook his shoulders. He felt weak. Light-headed. Alone.

Deep down he knew it wasn't true. He wasn't alone. But the crushing weight of grief and exhaustion was just too much to shake off. Sam finally glanced up, the tears drying on his hollow cheeks and looked at himself in the mirror again. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot. He grimaced at his gray complexion and stood up to search for a washcloth in the cabinet next to the sink. White-hot pain suddenly exploded inside of his skull and Sam groaned loudly and fell against the counter, cradling his head.

 _No. Not now. Not here._

Pain, so intense that Sam's stomach lurched, shot through his skull like a bolt of lightning. Darkness threatened to drag him down. He grabbed at the counter with one hand and held on, breathing heavily through clenched teeth.

A vision flashed through his brain in short bursts, like flashes from a camera but too bright and agonizing. Nausea gripped him. Sam lashed out, his hand leaving his head to slam against the bathroom mirror. Glass exploded. The sound cut through his head like a chainsaw.

Sam stumbled to his knees.

" _How the hell did you get into my house?"_

" _You're all going to die…"_

" _Yellow-eyed son of a bitch."_

" _Sam…"_

" _I'll send you straight back to hell."_

" _Sam…"_

 _A gun shot._

 _Dean running from the salvage yard to the house._

" _Bobby!"_

" _Sam…I'll see you soon."_

" _Bobby!" Dean frantic. Bobby falling._

 _Yellow-eyes smiling._

"Sam!"

Pounding. Frantic pounding. Sam's eyes popped open. The vision was gone. His head ached. He was on his knees, arms wrapped around his middle, huddled on the bathroom floor surrounded by broken glass.

There was blood.

Sam gazed down at his hand and saw blood streaming from a few cuts on his knuckles. He felt sick. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto the tiled floor. He took a deep breath.

"Sammy!"

Dean. There was pounding on the bathroom door again and Sam finally looked up, his eyes clearing. His head still ached fiercely.

"Sammy, I'm going to break down the door!"

Sam winced and began to slowly get to his feet. He steadied himself against the counter. He reached out and un-locked the door before his brother could be true to his word and break the door down.

The door crashed against the wall as Dean entered the bathroom. Bobby was right behind him. Dean's eyes were wild.

He took one look at his brother and swore violently.

Sam motioned for him to step aside.

Dean ignored him. He reached out and grasped his brother's shoulders. Concern darkened his emerald eyes.

"Sam, you all right?"

"I'm fine." Sam's voice was faint. He saw Dean narrow his eyes at him and knew he wasn't buying it. Sam sighed.

"Can I put some clothes on?" Sam asked.

"You're bleeding," Dean stated.

"Yes I know that," Sam replied, tone hinting annoyance, "Can I please get out of the bathroom now?"

"Damn it Sammy-"

"Dean, I am naked save for only this towel," Sam said, tone deceptively calm.

Dean blinked.

"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered. He backed out of the bathroom and stepped aside to let Sam pass. Sam went to the closet and grabbed a pair of jeans and a shirt from a hanger. Holding both articles of clothing he turned and stared at them expectantly.

"I'll go get the first aid kit," Bobby said gruffly. He left the room.

"I'll be downstairs. I'm going to make a fresh pot of coffee. When you are dressed you come down. We need to talk." Dean's tone of voice left no room for an argument. He turned and walked out of the room.

Sam immediately headed over to the bed. He dropped the clothes and then sank down to sit on the edge, his head in his hands. He knew he needed to get dressed and go downstairs.

But he couldn't bring himself to move for a while. His stomach still churned. His mind mulled over what he had seen. He inhaled sharply and smelled soap mixed with a hint of copper. Blood. His hand was still bleeding although it had slowed. Sam took a deep breath trying to slow his rapid heartbeat and reached for his clothes.

Once he was dressed it was still several minutes before he had the strength get to his feet and head downstairs, closing the door softly behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

Bobby walked into the kitchen with the first aid kit tucked under his arm. Sam had yet to come downstairs and Dean was standing at the sink gazing out the window at the junk yard; a cup of coffee was in one hand and his other was gripping the edge of the counter so hard the knuckles were white.

Bobby put the kit down onto the table and then pulled the chair back, wincing as it scraped across the tiled floor. Dean jumped at the sound but didn't turn around.

"Dean, sit down," Bobby said quietly. He snapped the locks on the first aid kit and began taking out the supplies needed to fix Sam's hand. Dean didn't answer.

"Sit down," Bobby said again, this time a little louder. Dean didn't budge. Stifling a loud sigh of impatience, Bobby walked over and placed a hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Look at me," Bobby ordered. Dean flinched slightly but his gaze to the outside world never wavered. Bobby shook him roughly.

"I said, 'Look at me!'", Bobby snapped. Finally, Dean blinked and his eyes slid over to look at him. Bobby's next words died on his lips and his impatience immediately evaporated. Dean looked utterly _destroyed_. His face was pale and pinched with grief and his green eyes were filled with tears. He looked like he was going to collapse and Bobby's hand tightened on his now shaking shoulder.

"Dean, come on you need to sit down." Bobby all but carried Dean over to the table, having taken the cup of coffee from his hand and leaving it on the counter. He sat Dean down in the chair next to him and then went back to the counter and reached for something a lot stronger than coffee. Whiskey.

He poured the honey colored liquid into three glasses and brought them back to the table.

He set one down in front of Dean.

"Drink it," Bobby commanded softly.

Dean looked at the glass but made no move to put it in his hand, let alone take a drink. Bobby swore silently. The mere fact that Dean Winchester was waffling at an offer of alcohol was telling him just how bad the situation had become. Bobby knew he was sick this morning from drinking too much the night before but it wouldn't have stopped Dean from having a drink in the past. From the moment Bobby found out John had died he had dreaded the coming months ahead. The boys depended on their father more than he had realized and with John gone Bobby knew his absence would affect all of them in ways they had never imagined. Sam would accept John's death but not before regretting the father-son relationship that could have been had they both seen eye to eye. But eventually, Sam would want to move forward, tuck away the memories to remember another day and become a damn good hunter in honor of his Dad. He would cope with grief by revenge and ridding the world of monsters and darkness. Dean on the other hand was the one Bobby really worried about. Dean had spent the most time with John and had followed in his shadow all of his life. He had hated John, loved him and was even a better hunter than John himself would have ever admitted. Losing John had devastated Dean on every level possible. So Dean had turned to hunting recklessly; he had turned to revenge on the yellow-eyed demon that had killed John; he had turned to working relentlessly on the impala; he had turned to alcohol and he had turned to bottling every emotion up inside. He was killing himself and Sam and Bobby both knew it.

And he was killing himself over Sam. Sam was Dean's very anchor to sanity and to family; they were both each other's saving grace in the darkness of their world. Their bond was stronger than anything Bobby had ever seen before. If one hurt, the other did too; if one needed help, the other was there no matter the cost. Dean worried about his brother and with good reason. Sam's visions were getting worse. Dean's protectiveness of his brother was fierce and as solid as concrete and the same went for Sam about Dean. Whatever hell was unleashed into their lives on a day to day basis never mattered. In the end their bond was never severed. They would ultimately die for one another.

And that last thought scared Bobby more than he would ever admit. He loved those boys like they were his own and he knew in the end, with John gone, that he was going to have to step up and be the father-figure they would come to need.

And they needed one now.

Mentally shaking himself out of his reverie, Bobby sat down in the chair beside Dean.

"Look at me son," Bobby said, forcefully using the word "son" in hopes that Dean would shake off the cloak of melancholy and fire would spark back in his eyes.

"Drink it."

Wordlessly and slowly, Dean raised the glass to his lips and took a swallow. He grimaced as the liquid burned its way down his throat to settle in his stomach. Bobby waited until he took another swallow and then sat back relieved as some of the color flooded back into his cheeks.

"Here comes Sam," Bobby whispered quietly as he turned back to the task at hand and took out gauze and bandages for Sam's cuts.

Dean turned slightly and watched silently as Sam entered the room. He walked slowly and Bobby didn't miss the brief expression of pain that flashed across Dean's face. Sam was hurting. His eyes were haunted, his face grey and he held his cut hand against his chest. Bobby knew Sam had to have one killer migraine; it was one of the effects of the visions that he had to suffer through until the strong images faded.

Bobby noticed the kid had wrapped what could only be toilet paper around his hand to help stop the bleeding and he found that amusing; Sam knew damn well they were about to give him first aid downstairs. The toilet paper could have been spared. Despite the circumstances Bobby felt the strong urge to laugh and he quickly coughed to cover it up.

"Sit down Sam," Bobby said gruffly, "Have a drink and let me see your hand." Sam nodded and did as he was told without a word. He sat down opposite his brother and Bobby and held out his hand; with his free hand he grabbed his glass and took a small sip of whiskey.

The silence in the room was deafening as Bobby cleaned Sam's wound and unwrapped a bandage to dress it. The cut would heal without stitches, although it was still a pretty nasty cut.

"All right, done," Bobby declared. He gathered the bloody gauze, the empty packages of bandages and the empty tubes of antibiotic ointment; he got to his feet and walked over to the trash can.

"I thought you boys were going to talk," He said, washing his hands at the sink and turning to see them watching him as he dried his hands with a dish towel.

Dean lowered his gaze and took another long swallow of whiskey, emptying his glass. Sam took another sip but didn't say a word either.

Bobby sighed heavily.

"I'm going to put up the first aid kit and then go upstairs and clean up the glass in the bathroom."

"Bobby, I can do-"Sam spoke up, his voice hoarse. Bobby cut him off.

"I can handle it. It's okay Sam." Bobby walked over and placed his hand on his shoulder. He squeezed it gently.

"I'll be back downstairs when I'm through."

He walked towards the hallway, pausing as he walked past Dean and whispered, "Talk," before he left the kitchen.

Bobby only hoped that when he returned the atmosphere would be different, the air not thick with emotion and the room not as silent as a mausoleum.


	4. Chapter 4

Glass was literally strewn all over the bathroom. Blood was splattered on the mirror and puddled in small droplets on the counter and tiled floor. Bobby sighed heavily and stepped over the worse of the blood and glass until he was standing in front of the bathtub. Small shards crunched under his boots as he began to sweep up the mess that had been caused by a vision. The kitchen had still been quiet when he had reached the top of the stairs a few minutes ago and he had paused to listen, fully intending to head back down if those two idjits hadn't opened up their mouths and started communicating. Fortunately he did not have too as the soft sound of murmured voices floated up the stairs. Bobby had let out a long breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. It was a baby step to get those two to open up ever since John died but it was a step he would take. He was tired of the separation, the individual lives they were pretending to have so they could side-step each other's feelings. Bobby felt like they had all been walking on eggshells for the past week. Hell, not eggshells. Glass.

 _Glass._

Bobby shook his head in dismay and with a little sadness as he scooped up the glass in the dustpan and dumped it into the wastebasket. He stood up straight and leaned the broom against the wall and grabbed a rag he had stuffed into his pocket from the hall closet. He turned on the faucet and wet it and then began mopping up the drops of blood.

His thoughts drifted to the boys downstairs. They had been dealt a bad hand since they were young but they had grown into the two of best damn hunters Bobby had ever seen.

They had their Daddy to thank for that. There were times Bobby wished him and John's relationship hadn't been so strained but in the end the two had a mutual understanding: The boys.

John had made that clear the last time Bobby had seen him. And it wasn't when he had threatened to blast John full of buckshot. Dean believed that and Bobby let him believe it. But the last time Bobby had seen John was in the hospital right after the accident…

 _A few months ago…_

" _The car is at my place. It's beat to all hell but it's there."_

 _John's eyes opened into slits and he saw Bobby standing at the foot of his hospital bed._

 _Bobby stood with his arms crossed and his expression grim. John stared at him for a moment and then looked him up and down. His mouth quirked up into a wry smile._

" _You didn't sneak any shotgun in here did you? Not gonna blast me full of buckshot old man?" John's tone was gruff. He sat up gingerly in his bed and regarded his old friend in silence. Bobby's lips twitched._

" _Do I look like I smuggled a shotgun in my pocket you son of a bitch?"_

 _John let out a bark of laughter. Bobby scowled._

" _So what are you doing here then? Come to check up on me? I don't by that for a second." John glanced around the room. His focus shifted. "Where is Sam? How's Dean?"_

 _Bobby unfolded his arms. He hesitated._

" _Sam is in Dean's room. I passed by on my way here. He didn't see me. Dean looks bad. Still in a coma."_

 _A flicker of pain flashed in John's eyes. He maneuvered his way across the bed until he was sitting on the side. He cradled his injured arm and stared hard at the halfway open hospital room door. He didn't speak for several minutes. Bobby watched as a shadow seemed to pass over John's face and uneasiness immediately began to uncurl in the pit of his stomach._

" _John-"Bobby began but John cut him off._

" _Bobby, how long has our pissing contest gone on?"_

 _Bobby blinked._

" _What?"_

" _Long enough I hope," John replied._

" _John-"_

" _I can use someone on my side right now." John glanced over and stared right into Bobby's eyes. "I could use someone on my side."_

" _What the hell are you talking about?"_

 _John slowly got to his feet and walked around the bed until he was standing in front of Bobby who regarded him warily._

" _I know we don't always see eye to eye but we do have one thing in common, don't we? My sons."_

 _The uneasiness in the pit of Bobby's stomach now raged like a fire. He stared at the man in complete confusion and yet something flickered in his brain, something telling him he already knew what ultimate decision John had come too. But one Bobby refused to believe._

" _Yes," Bobby finally said and his voice was slightly hoarse, "Yes your sons."_

 _John reached over to the hospital tray and for the first time Bobby saw the folded paper that was lying on top. John grabbed it and held it up._

" _I want the boys to read this. Not now. Not tomorrow. But in time I want them to have this. Can you do that for me?"_

" _Why don't you give it to them yourself?" Bobby said. John smiled. His smile was sad and yet fierce at the same time._

" _A Hunter's life is unpredictable. Who knows what the next day, hour or even minute can bring any one of us? You of all people know this Bobby. And because I trust you old man. Despite the buckshot you threatened me with, I trust you. Will you make sure they get it?"_

 _Without hesitation and without a word, Bobby took the piece of paper and shoved it into his pocket._

 _John stepped back and smiled briefly. He reached out and put his hand on Bobby's shoulder and then turned and went back to his bed. He sat down and then leaned back slowly, his head resting on the pillow._

 _Bobby watched him silently._

 _John broke it with a gruff, "Thank you." And he meant it. Bobby saw it in his steady gaze and he nodded._

" _Now get out of here. I need to rest."_

" _Yeah, you look like hammered crap," Bobby replied._

 _John closed his eyes. Bobby snorted as he knew he had been dismissed._

" _Son of a bitch," He grumbled as he headed for the door._

" _I heard that," John said from the bed, eyes still closed._

" _Well, at least the accident didn't scar your hearing," Bobby shot back._

" _If I ever get back to your place-"_

" _You set foot on my property and I will still pump you full of buckshot."_

" _Thought so" John said, "Thanks for stopping by. It's good to know you care."_

" _Don't you wish."_

" _You take care of that car," John said sharply and his eyes flew open to meet Bobby who was standing in the doorway, one hand on the doorknob._

 _Bobby nodded curtly and closed the door quietly behind him, wishing to high heaven he could slam it._

 _John stared at the closed door silently for a moment and then whispered, "And take care of my boys…"_

Bobby shook himself out his reverie and scrubbed hard at the blood on the bathroom counter and tried to shake the rush of guilt that had just swept over him. His breathing had increased rapidly and paused to wipe a hand over his face.

"Damn you John Winchester," Bobby growled into the silence. He had forgotten the letter John had given him. He had pushed that whole damn memory out of his mind because he hated keeping things from those boys. He hadn't known what John was going to do the next night. Hadn't he?

John's behavior had been suspicious in the hospital room but before Bobby had left the conversation had turned back to the pissing contest John had said he hoped was over. But now, months later, Bobby knew it was just a ruse to keep him from knowing his plan. And he didn't know until it was too late. He had given Sam what John had asked for the very next day and he hadn't lied about what the ingredients were for: summoning a demon.

So why didn't the plan click then? Why didn't Bobby pick up the phone and call one of the boys, call John himself? He didn't know John was going to sacrifice himself for Dean. Didn't he?

Bobby swore violently and raked the rag into the trash, the blood gone now from the counter and floor. He dragged a hand over his face and took a deep breath.

"You didn't know," He said to himself, "You didn't. Stop over analyzing every damn conversation you had with that man. What's done is done. It's over."

Bobby grabbed the brook and dustpan and walked out of the bathroom.

He flipped the bathroom light off, closed the door and then turned around to face the bedroom.

" _Bobby…"_

The smell nearly sent him staggering. He coughed, he choked. The broom and dustpan fell from his hands as he stumbled forward towards the bed.

Sulphur. Demon. Damn.

He braced one hand on the edge and looked up.

" _Bobby…"_

The demon stood in front of him, eyes closed, blocking his way to the bedroom door. Bobby felt rage begin to burn inside of him. He loathed demons.

He steadied himself against the smell of Sulphur and stood, ready on his feet.

"How the hell did you get in my house?"

" _Bobby…"_

"I'll send you straight back to hell."

" _Bobby…"_

The demon smiled. He opened his eyes.

Bobby stumbled back, his face draining of any color.

"You son of a bitch," He whispered.

" _Bobby…"_ The demon breathed.

"You son of a _bitch_ ," Bobby whispered again.

The yellow-eyed demon smiled.


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey everyone,**

 **I'm so sorry I am just now updating this story. I am still grieving the loss of my Dad. This past Easter Sunday has been a year. It doesn't feel like it. I hope to update more frequently. It took me a while to write this chapter as it also describes my own feelings. But it is now my favorite chapter in this story so far. I really hope you enjoy it and thank you so much for my followers and the reviews! Please keep reviewing and I will try and be more diligent in answering each of you!**

Bobby's footsteps had faded on the stairs when Sam finally lowered his glass of whiskey and flicked his eyes over to Dean who was staring at the table. Dean's glass was empty. The silence in the room was wrought with tension and grief. Sam felt like he was being smothered. His eyes closed as his head throbbed and he brought his hand to his forehead and rubbed it, willing the pain, the images to go away.

"How are you feeling?"

The words were soft spoken but laced with an under-current of harshness. Sam opened his eyes to find Dean staring at him, his eyes bleak; the emerald irises were dimmed in their color and shadowed with anger and sorrow.

Sam cleared his throat.

"I'm fine," He replied quietly.

"Liar," Dean said.

Sam opened his mouth to retort, expecting Dean to lash out at him, to press the issue of his well-being but his brother went silent again and the question of Sam's honesty was left alone.

"Bobby left us alone so we would talk," Sam whispered after the silence became deafening and he had to break it.

"So talk," Dean said.

"I-I don't know…"

"What Sammy? You don't know what we should talk about?" Dean's voice was a little stronger as he looked up and made contact with Sam who was staring at him warily.

"How about you tell me what happened upstairs?"

Sam lowered his gaze and stared at the table, feeling his face get hot and his heart start to pound heavily inside his chest.

"You don't want to tell me, do you? Well, that's fine. You don't have to tell me. I'm sure I can guess. I don't care that Bobby wants us to talk. I don't feel like talking."

"We need to talk-"Sam began. Dean broke in, his voice like steel.

"Sammy, I just told you I don't feel like talking."

"About Dad," Sam finished, voice hoarse, ignoring his older brother. Dean sucked in his breath and sat back in his chair.

The kitchen went silent. Sam braced himself barely breathing. He could feel the waves of tension, the hum of grief and fury that was teetering on the precipice of their lives, waiting, threatening to explode.

He waited for that explosion to come now.

It never came.

Dean got to his feet.

"I don't want to talk about Dad. I don't want to talk about anything." He grabbed his whiskey glass and walked over to the sink, setting the glass down on the counter.

Sam sighed heavily, both in relief and with resignation.

"Dean, we have to talk about Dad. We have to-"

"There's nothing to talk about," Dean said sharply.

"There is a lot we need to-"

"Sam, stop! I'm not talking about Dad. Drop it."

"No." Sam's voice was quiet but firm.

Dean turned around and glared at him, crossing his arms. His expression could cut through fire, his eyes stared daggers and any other person would have turned away. The subject would have been dropped.

Sam didn't even flinch. He stared his older brother down.

"Sammy," Dean finally said and he lowered his head, his gaze now directed at the floor, his tone going from hostile to pleading.

"Please," Dean whispered, "Talk about anything. Anything but Dad, please."

"Why?" Sam asked softly, "Because it's too painful? It's time we talk. We've learned things recently, things we need to discuss. It's time to talk about it all. I know it hurts," Sam whispered, "I know the grief cuts like a knife inside but we have to face the fact that Dad is gone. Dean, I know how close you and Dad were; I know how much you loved him and I know how much this hurts you. I can see it. I know you Dean and you're drowning. The drinking, the recklessness when we have hunted the past few months, the silence and the way you have distanced yourself from Bobby and from me…Do you think I can't see it? I'm your brother. We are family. Dean, we're stronger when we are together. I don't feel very strong right now," Sam confessed softly, "I feel like we have come to our own crossroads and we don't know which way to go. I don't really care which way we go as long as we can go together. I can't keep going without you Dean. We are family. You are my brother. I know we never go chick flick with our emotions but right now I don't give a damn…I love you Dean. Do you hear me? I love you. Don't give up on me. Please…please talk to me."

Sam's voice trailed off hoarsely and he realized tears had been dripping from his cheeks and had made small puddles on the table. His hands shook as he reached up and brushed his fingers over his eyes and then he raised his eyes to Dean who was watching him silently. Dean had lowered his arms sometime during Sam's declamation and they were now at his side. Tears were running down Dean's face and his emerald eyes had regained their color and were bright with emotion. He reached up and ran his hand over his face and took a deep, shaky breath.

"Dean," Sam whispered.

Dean cleared his throat and sniffed hard. He pushed away from the counter.

"I need some air," He whispered. Sam watched in despair as Dean's shoulder's hunched and he hurried to escape to the junkyard outside. The door closed behind him and Sam let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding and got to his feet. He put his whiskey glass next to his brother's and then turned to follow him outside.

The sudden and loud crash from upstairs caused Sam to freeze, his head slowly turning to the staircase.

"Bobby? Everything okay up there?" Sam deliberately raised his voice, hoping he could be heard.

" _You son of a bitch…"_

The words floated down from the second floor and Sam began to walk towards the stairs, uneasiness burning inside his gut.

"Bobby? Are you all right?"

" _You son of a bitch…"_

There was another crash and Sam began to run, bounding up the stairs until he reached the second floor.

"Bobby!" He ran towards the guestroom and threw open the door.

Bobby was on the floor beside the bed, his face white and his were hands gripping the broom that was lying across his lap. He turned and met Sam's eyes as the door flew open and he struggled to get to his feet.

"Sam, stop!"

"Bobby-"Concerned, Sam started towards him as Bobby frantically gestured at the other side of the room.

" _Sammy…"_

Sam spun around as the voice breathed his name. The smell of Sulphur hit him and he knew instantly that he was inside his vision. Only this time it was real; it was happening.

The yellow-eyed demon stood there before him and Sam's eyes widened. He stumbled back only to feel the demon take hold of his arm and look deep into his eyes, holding him there, paralyzing him. Sam couldn't move.

" _Sammy…you're all going to die…"_

The smell of rotting eggs was nauseating and Sam struggled in the grip of the demon who had murdered their mother.

" _Sammy…"_

"Let me go," Sam snarled. The fear was abating, the rage was beginning to consume him. This monster, this demon, this black stain in the depths of hell had taken their mother away from them. This demon was the reason their Dad was dead.

" _Sammy, you're all going to die."_

"You first," Bobby shouted from behind and then there was a gunshot and the demon snarled and Sam was falling to the floor as the yellow-eyed demon let him go.

Sam heard Bobby yell as the demon flung him against the wall; he heard glass breaking, furniture shattering and then sudden silence. The only sound was Sam's own harsh breathing as he lay on the floor gasping for clean air. The smell was overwhelming and Sam's stomach went into full revolt. He scrambled to his feet, anxious to check on Bobby but even more anxious to make it to the bathroom. He heard Bobby groan as he passed him and felt relief that he was alive. Sam hit his knees in front of the toilet as the pain in his head and the whiskey from earlier became too much and he vomited until he saw stars. Faintly he heard the front door open downstairs and could hear Dean shouting.

Sam vomited again just as Dean came into the room and then he leaned back against the wall and looked over through bleary eyes as Dean checked on their friend.

"Bobby! Bobby, can you hear me? Are you okay?"

"Yeah, yeah, I can hear you. I'll be fine. Just leave me alone for a minute," Bobby whispered.

Sam saw the relief in Dean's eyes and the deep breath he took as he looked up and focused on him. Dean got to his feet and walked into the bathroom. He crouched down and regarded Sam with a solemn, yet concerned expression.

"You all right?" Dean asked quietly.

"I'm fine," Sam said softly.

Dean shook his head slowly and lowered himself until he was sitting next to him.

"Liar," Dean replied.

Sam glanced over at him and saw the small smile on Dean's face and Sam let out a small chuckle. They sat there side by side for a long time on the bathroom floor; Bobby lay quietly just outside the bathroom door. No one spoke.

And then Dean reached over and put his hand on Sam's shoulder and squeezed gently. Sam glanced at him and was startled to see a fresh sheen of tears in his brother's eyes.

"I love you too Sammy," Dean finally whispered softly. He dropped his hand and resumed staring at the bathroom wall. Sam lowered his gaze and then slowly leaned his head on Dean's shoulder.

It was a long time before any of them moved.


End file.
